


Social Distance

by MiaCooper



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Innuendo, Personal Logs, Photoshop therapy, Quarantine, Sick Fic, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23393689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: The terrible trials of a captain in quarantine.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 16
Kudos: 69
Collections: Lock Down Fest





	1. Chapter 1

_**Captain’s personal log, stardate 52103.2.** _

Day 6 of our forced quarantine…

I have discovered that Chakotay’s unfortunate personal habits extend to: remaining silent until after my first cup of the coffee he brings me in bed, leaving me ample hot water and picking up the underwear I leave on the floor. 

If only he would sniff it before he tosses it into the recycler, or fart in bed, or leave toenail clippings in the bathroom sink, but alas, he is so far showing every sign of being as perfect as he appears.

I am growing concerned that even after the Doctor has developed his cure for this virus, I will have become so used to being treated like the queen I am that I won’t want to go back to being the captain.

Still, it’s lucky we were the only ones afflicted with this particular mutated strain of the virus. Imagine if I’d been stuck alone with Neelix for the past six days? He wouldn’t have made it past Day 3.

*

_**Captain’s personal log, addendum.** _

Naturally, Seven of Nine is the only crew member who was exposed to the virus without getting sick.

She seems to be doing admirably well, running the ship by herself. Surely I can leave her to command the bridge and maintain ship’s systems alone for a while longer? She won’t need to regenerate for another thirty hours or so without her cybernetic systems starting to fail. Beside, it’ll be character-building.

I wonder if Chakotay’s awake yet.

I wonder if he’s so tired because of the virus, or because I’m wearing him out.

I wonder if I should feel guilty about that? I mean, really, It’s his fault for being so damn good in bed.

*

_**Captain’s personal log, stardate 52105.8.** _

Day 7.

Chakotay is obviously feeling much better, if the way he woke me this morning is any judge. And they say starship captains don’t blush!

When I asked him where he learnt that little trick he mumbled something about warrior women and tribal customs and finished with “I have more”, so I told him to put his latinum where his mouth is.

I’ve never known anyone to keep their latinum _there_ before.

While Chakotay was fetching the massage oil, the Doctor commed to tell me that he has successfully tested a vaccine on seventeen crewmen of various species with no ill effects, and that he expects to have a cure in the next day or so.

I have shut down his program.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Captain’s personal log, stardate 52108.4._ **

Quarantine, Day 8.

Lieutenant Paris, who is on the road to recovery from the virus, reported from sickbay that he is still unable to reactivate the Doctor’s program. I made appropriately soothing and encouraging noises, got him off the com line as soon as I could and wheedled Chakotay into another of his infamous shoulder massages.

68 percent of the crew is still bedridden. The virus, which at first we thought only afflicted humans, knows no boundary between species, and does not - as we assumed - run its course in a few days. It mutates rapidly - hence the ship-wide quarantine measures, as the strain that Chakotay and I contracted is substantially different to the one I’m told Tuvok finally succumbed to three days ago.

It’s very unfortunate that we’re still contagious, and can’t go to the bridge, or engineering, or even leave our, I mean my, quarters. Poor Seven sounded close to tears at her last status update.

I should reactivate the Doctor to give her a hand maintaining ship’s systems, if nothing else. In fact, yes, I’ll do that.

Right after this massage.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Captain’s personal log, stardate 52113.2.** _

Quarantine, Day 10.

Despite the inexplicable interference plaguing the Doctor’s program, which Lieutenant Torres is too sick and Seven of Nine is too busy to repair, Lieutenant Paris has made commendable progress in developing a cure for the virus.

Unfortunately, while I was manipulating his crew evaluation record to bust him down to crewman third class, Chakotay woke up from a nap and wanted to know what I was doing. I was forced to resort to devious measures to distract him.

As a result, Paris’ access to the medical database was not revoked and he was able to complete the Doctor’s research. A cure has been synthesised and administered to the entire crew. Our convalescence is expected to be protracted, but Dr Paris estimates full recovery for even the hardest-hit crew members within the next four days.

I anticipate permanently assigning the meddling little pest to plasma maintenance as soon as Ensign Baytart stops hallucinating long enough to take the conn.

Still, it’s not all dismal. I’ve been feeling so much better that I’ve taken up ballet again, which has done wonders for my legs, not to mention my flexibility. Seven of Nine dropped by with a status report, looking particularly haggard, and I swear her eyes had turned a minty shade of green when she remarked on how rested I appear. And Chakotay admires me so much in that shirt I appropriated on New Earth that I’ve managed to convince him it was mine all along.

Four more days. Four glorious, lazy, self-indulgent days until I have to retake my crown.

That is, if the tests show I’m no longer contagious. Which, unless I can somehow sneak into sickbay while Nurse Paris’ back is turned, I suppose they will.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Captain’s personal log, stardate 52125.0.** _

Quarantine, Day 14.

Fuck.

Fuckety fuck.

_“Tests show an abnormally elevated white blood cell count coupled with viral antibodies, indicating patient’s immune response has been insufficient to repel the disease. Patient remains infected, suspected contagious.”_

Or in other words: Be careful what you wish for.

That’s right. I’m still quarantined.

Only problem is, Chakotay is not.

Fuck.

So here I sit, confined to the holodeck (I told the Doctor, who has been _extra_ snippy since someone repaired his program, that if I had to stay locked down in my quarters for one minute longer, someone might be permanently maimed), with no visitors allowed. Not even Chakotay. Even though, having spent the past two weeks in close ( _very_ close) personal ( _very_ personal) contact with me, you’d think he’s immune to me by now.

Well, immune to the viral strain I’m carrying, anyway. The day he’s immune to _me_ is the day I stop fiddling with my combadge and start practicing that social distancing thing the Doctor has been prissy-facing about.

Lieutenant Paris, or as I like to refer to him, Crewman Third Class Helmboy, designed this holoprogram for me. It’s some kind of whiskey bar, apparently. He said Chakotay gave him the specifications. He said Chakotay described it as “exciting, sultry and a little bit wild, and guaranteed to drive you to drink”, although on reflection, Chakotay might have been describing quarantine with me. So he said. 

Then he referred to this seat as my “social distance naughty chair”, reminded me that the Doctor and Tuvok have conspired to remove my command codes so I can’t hack my way out of this prison, I mean holodeck, gave me a lengthy speech about proper hand hygiene, and said - with a ring of satisfaction in his voice that Gollum would covet - “See you in thirty days”.

Fucking, fuckety, _fuck_.


End file.
